


Taunt

by littlefrog1025



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Derek Feels, First Time, Gift Fic, Incubus Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, POV Derek, POV Stiles, Prompt Fic, Scott is a Failwolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4314390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlefrog1025/pseuds/littlefrog1025
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles" pays Derek a visit in the middle of the night...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vykki_Q](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Vykki_Q).



> For Vykki_Q who wanted some dirty, Succubus Sterek smut, but I accidentally spilled my angst and feels all over it, and this is what happened...

* * *

“Derek… Derek… Wake up, Derek…”

Soft lips kiss sweetly at Derek’s jawline with a little giggle following each one.

Derek groans, not wanting to move. Not wanting the heavy weight on top of him to move. He wants to stay right here, getting kissed awake by the dreamy voice prying him out of slumber.

The lips move to his neck and Derek’s moans.

“You like that, huh.” It sounds familiar, but Derek’s too compliant to do anything but enjoy the feeling of the warm body rolling its hips, grinding against his dick and leaving tiny bites along his throat.

The lips move to his ear. “I love the sounds you make. Come on, Derek. Wake up. For me. Please.” A fondling touch caresses him between his legs, turning his half-hard cock fully erect. “I promise to be nice if you wake up.”

Derek lets his eyes flutter open. It’s a blur at first, darkness all around, but he sees a shadowy something, perched on his lap, looking down at him. He reaches over to the nightstand and switches on the light.

“Stiles?!”

“Surprise,” he grins.

Derek flings him to the side, bolting out of bed. “How’d you get in here? What are you doing here?”

“Well, your place isn’t exactly Fort Knox, and I thought it pretty obvious why I was here. Come on. Get back in bed with me,” he says, holding out his hand.

“You need to go home. Now.”

He leans back on his elbows, smirking. “Why would I go home when we were about to have some fun?”

“Are you drunk? Did you drive here? I’m calling Scott.” Derek reaches for his cellphone, but Stiles quickly snatches it off the nightstand. Derek reaches for it in the boy’s hands but Stiles slides it down the front of his pants with a playful smirk on his face.

“You want to come get it?”

Derek’s confused. This is…not normal. Not like Stiles. He doesn’t flirt with Derek. Not like this. Not so blanantly. And he’s never broken into his place and jumped into bed with him. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. But I am a little frustrated a certain werewolf has suddenly ran cold on me.” He swings to his knees and pulls Derek forward by his Henley. “Let’s fix that, and get back to where we started.”

“Stiles—”

Stiles’ lips are on him, pressing hard and desperate. Derek should push him off. He should tell him “no,” take him home and put him to bed. But he doesn’t smell like whiskey. He doesn’t seem ill, or like he’s sleepwalking again. He feels soft, and warm against him. He’s there, in front of Derek, in his bed and giving him permission to take.

So his hand fists the back of Stiles’ green flannel, while the other hand cards through his hair, tugging slightly, tilting his head to give Derek control. Stiles parts his lips and Derek accepts the invitation, sliding his tongue inside and earning a illicit moan from the human.

Stiles wants this. Just as much as Derek has wanted it for so long. Since the third time his life was saved by him.

Stiles deepens the kiss, turning it wild and insatiable. Derek’s lost all control, but he’s fine with that, enjoying the pulsing desire vibrating from Stiles’ body. He wants him. Nothing but him and their lips, hands, and bodies connected. So Derek will take, and give back just as good as it’s given.

Derek moves his mouth to Stiles’ neck, licking, kissing, and sucking there. Stiles is heavy breathes and “oh, fuck, Dereks,” as he mouths there. He wants to bite. A large bite with his teeth marks and purple bruises. A claiming bite. A warning, a signal, to all that should cross Stiles’ path that he’s taken. He belongs to another, who will fight, kill, and die for him.

“Do it.” Stiles bares his neck. “Do it.”

Derek’s eyes fade electric blue. Fangs drop and a growl emerges. Stiles is giving him this. This thing that means the world, that stamps Stiles as his and only his. That they belong to one another and their bond will never be broken.

Derek licks. One long stripe from Stiles’ collarbone to his jawbone. He wants to taste first… He licks again, trying to take in that sweet smell that always wafts from the boy’s skin. That smell of pine and birch, golden poppy, blackberries, spring water, and talc… He inhales deep…

No. No, that isn’t right. There’s…nothing.

He pulls back, eyes on the boy in his hold, searching.

“Derek. What’s wrong?”

“…What do you call me?”

“What? Derek. I call you ‘Derek’.” He leans forward, stealing an easy kiss.

“No. The nickname. What do you always call me?”

“I…”

Derek waits, but not long. Stiles’ face of lust and longing turns into one of defeat. He flounces back onto the bed and sighs.

“Give me my phone back,” Derek demands, sounding more annoyed than hostile.

“What was it?”

“You don’t smell like him. Phone.” He holds out his hand.

“Fucking wolves and your whole scent/smell bullshit. Ugh! God, it’s annoying.”

“I bet. Give me my phone before I take it, and you won’t like how I do it.”

The thing, the not-Stiles, rolls its eyes. It reaches into its pants and fishes out Derek’s phone, dropping it in his hand. “Do you know how much power a werewolf has, especially a born wolf? And God, if you’d been an Alpha… That’s who you’re calling now, isn’t it? Your Alpha?”

“Yes. You’re not going to try and run, or shift or something? You don’t want to escape?”

“Why? Is death upon me? I’ll take my chances,” it smiles.

Derek ignores him, calling Scott. “Yeah, it’s Derek. There’s something at my loft… I don’t know. It’s a—”

“Incubus,” the not-Stiles whispers, helping Derek out.

He doesn’t want to tell Scott that, but— “Incubus… No, not the band, Scott!”

Not-Stiles snickers.

“It’s a demon that…You know what, just get here please… Yes, now, Scott…! Well, then bring Allison. I don’t care! Just it out of my apartment!” Derek hangs up.

“And you’re not the Alpha…?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Want to talk about it, big and sexy? We got a couple minutes to kill until your bullshit Alpha gets here.”

“He’s bringing his girlfriend. So, your hopes are dashed in trying to seduce us both into bed.”

It snaps its fingers. “Rats,” not-Stiles says comically.

“What exactly is your plan? You’re busted, but you haven’t exactly made any attempt at fleeing, so what the hell is it that you want?”

“Same thing I wanted 10 minutes ago,” it winks.

“You want to rip my heart from my chest while I’m having an orgasm, and eat it? That’s not going to happen.”

“And why not? What the hell is stopping you from giving yourself over to me? What the hell are you living for? I know what blue eyes mean on a wolf. And you’re not the only one ruled by smells. I’m practically choking on your anguish, but that lust coming off your body earlier… I could have fed off that for years. You really want his boy, don’t you?”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why am I always fighting with some…thing, that wants to eat at me, tear me apart, ruin me, or leave me helpless? Why can’t you guys just ever fucking kill me instead of making me fucking miserable? WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO TAUNT,” Derek growls.

Not-Stiles is completely undisturbed by the outburst. “That’s what demons do. That’s what dark creatures do. We slip between your skin, and into the corners of your mind, burying ourselves within, making a home. We pull out all the things that we need, that feed us; and nothing sustains the sinister more than the bleak. And big and sexy, you are nothing but. I bet you can’t even remember the last time you smiled, or felt happy— Well, actually, I bet you can, and I bet a certain boy was the one, the only one, capable of breaking that brooding, hard shell.”

Stiles was. He’d made some lame joke to Scott about goblins. Some awful play on words that made the human waggle his eyebrows and smirk like he just told the most amazing joke and Derek couldn’t help but smile. A bright, wide smile Stiles caught, and returned.

“You’re not meant to keep living. Something in you is telling me that. You’re well past your expiration date, wolf. You should have been gone, with the others, the ones you miss. You know that. You kind of want that. I’m just offering you the option of having it, of ending all the pain and suffering and bullshit that’s come with this life you’ve been given. You could leave it all behind. In a good way.”

“There’s nothing good about having your chest literally ripped open and your heart devoured.”

It waves a dismissive hand. “I do it so quickly you won’t feel a thing. Plus, I’m a polite Incubus. I wait a beat until after you have a mind-shattering orgasm. Most snatch your heart out during, and that’s just rude.”

“Glad you have manners,” Derek snarks.

Not-Stiles snorts. “You know, you’re really handsome. Obviously funny. Loyal. Dependable. Strong. Caring. You’re one of the good guys. Why aren’t you and the boy together?”

Derek doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to talk about all the ways Stiles has seen him fail, time after time, and could never gain interest in someone that can’t win one every now and again. “Where the hell is Scott?”

“Is he straight?”

It’s Derek’s turn to snort. Stiles may not be interested in him the way he wants him to be, but he knows without a doubt that he is, however, attracted to him. He can always depend on the minty aroma pouring from Stiles’ skin whenever he’s naked, or shirtless, or shifted into his beta form. He smelt it that night he saved him from Isaac. The night he became an Alpha.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I’m not getting into this with you.”

Not-Stiles gives him a pout. “Fine, I guess.”

Derek pulls a chair from beside the dresser and sits, arms crossed over his broad chest.

They’re quiet, listening to the sounds of two cats fighting, chasing each other down the alley outside and knocking over a trashcan. There’s an ambulance in the distance…

“So…want to make-out?”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“There’s no harm in kissing. We have to have sex for me to…you know.”

“No.”

“Come on. We’re both really good at it. And I look like the object of your desire. Your little Alpha will be here soon to kill me, so we might as well make the best of my last few moments.”

“No.”

Not-Stiles stands. “Why not? Because I’m not him?”

He steps closer.

“Because I don’t smell like him?”

Closer.

“Because you can’t sink your teeth in and claim me as yours?”

Closer.

“Because despite all that, you kind of still want me?”

Closer.

“I do look like him. Sound like him. Feel like him.”

Toe-to-toe.

“It’s okay to still want that. To want me. That’s fine. I know I’m not the real mcoy,” he bends down, right in Derek’s face, ghosting his breath over Derek’s mouth, “but I’m as good as it’s going to get. Maybe better. Because I’d do exactly what he won’t: I’d let you have me.”

He attacks Derek’s mouth, just as primal as he did before, sinking into the werewolf’s lap and pulling at raven-colored hair.

Derek weakly tries to push away, but not-Stiles is like Velcro, and truth be told he isn’t trying all that hard. He should be. He should be revolted by this creature, this demon, who thought it could sneak into his home, and take his power, his life, with a disguise.

But it can.

Because Derek wants. He wants more than anything. He’s aching and wretched. Pathetic and without reason.

He’s sick of reason. He’s sick of being strong and fighting and losing. This is how he wins. He gets Stiles. For all his efforts and loss and disappointments, he gets Stiles. It’s not ideal, not how he’s pictured, but it’ll do. It’ll make up for all the shit that’s been handed to him and he’s taken and eaten and gotten back up the next day to do all over again.

He gets this. This is his reward. However fatal it may be.

He stands, lifting not-Stiles with him. Long, lean legs wrap around his waist. He carries him to the bed and drops him on the mattress with a bounce.

Not-Stiles takes off his flannel. Derek rips his T-shirt in half, exposing his pale chest and pert nipples, and the long line of hair that leads into his pants.

Not-Stiles kicks off his sneakers. Derek takes off his shirt. He grabs the back of not-Stiles’ head and crushes their mouths together in an abusive kiss.

“Jesus,” it says, coming up for air.

Derek takes off its pants, then his own. He never wears underwear, and the affect of it leaves the demon with his mouth agape.

Not-Stiles pulls Derek onto the bed, over him. Derek scoots them up a bit, so they’re not hanging off the edge.

The demon flips them, straddling the beta wolf with his cock between his cheeks. He rubs up and down the length of it, making Derek moan and leak patches of precum on the small of the incubus’ back.

He leans down and licks into Derek’s open mouth. “I am going to make you feel so good, Derek. I promise.” He grabs Derek’s cock, stroking it gently, watching the werewolf’s face in ecstasy. “Mmm. You going to make it good for me, too, werewolf?”

“Yes.”

“I know you will.” The demon lines Derek’s dick with his hole, and ever so slowly, sinks down, taking him in, inch by inch.

Derek’s claws snap out, prickling the incubus’ hips.

“You’re so big, and I’m so tight for you.” The demon digs its fingers into Derek’s pecs, moaning and whimpering as he bottoms-out and rest completely full of Derek’s hard dick.

It licks its lips, such an unconscious thing to do, such a Stiles thing to do, that Derek growls. This is his. Stiles is his. And right now, he’s stuffed with Derek’s cock and looking just as blissed-out as he had always imagined he would look. He surges up, just a roll of his hips, and “Stiles” lets out a not-so pretty moan. One that comes with being lost in, or scared of, your own pleasure.

This is what he wants: Stiles surrendering. Giving himself over to Derek. Entirely. That’s the thing that gets him off. So, he pushes up, deep and hard, rolling his body into him. Easy at first, just to hear the breathy moans and subtle whimpers rise from his pink, flushed mouth, and then steady, setting a pace, feeling the tight grip of “Stiles’” hands in his chest hair and that delicious stretch of him around his cock.

“Derek… Derek… Derek…”

He doesn’t want to hear anything else. Just his name in song through stubble-burned lips.

He wants more. So he digs for more. Pushing greedily, faster and angrier into him. “Stiles” is just holding on at this point, taken for a ride.

Derek shifts and lets the wolf go. He’s rapacious and driven. He won’t let up; hearing only screams of his name and begging cries, pleading to come.

Derek carefully wraps a clawed hand around the creature’s dick. He tugs and a wanton whimper reverberates in his ears. He keeps his pace aggressive and dogged, while stroking him, trying to pull out “Stiles’” orgasm.

Derek looks, wanting to remember this, to have every detail imprinted on his mind, referring back to it in glossy, bright pictures in his head. He looks everywhere: his eyes, his mouth, his neck, his chest, his fingers, his…

No navel. No belly-button…

And why would there be? This isn’t Stiles. This isn’t the boy he craves. It’s a demon. It’s not birthed, but forged from blackness and shadowy magic. This isn’t real. He can’t have this.

It’s all covet, and no need. He needs Stiles. His Stiles. The real Stiles. The one that smells like pine and birch, golden poppy, blackberries, spring water, and talc.

“Oh, shit! I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” It spurts a cum-like substance on Derek’s chest, yellow and sour-smelling and burning.

He looks up and his boy is gone. There are horns, large, bat-like wings, and a wide mouth filled with sharp, crooked teeth! Its roar bounces off the walls in an echo, and smells of sulfur! A clawed hand rises, ready to slash into Derek’s chest—

He grabs its face, and twist, ripping the head right off its gargoyle body!

He pushes the carcass off him and scrambles out of bed. The creature’s cum falls from his body like slime, leaving a quick burn mark that’s gone when he heals.

“Derek!”

Scott and Allison. Lydia…and Stiles, he hears.

He looks down and sees not the winged beast he destroyed, but Stiles’ severed head and lifeless body.

Cruel. They always have to taunt. Even in the end.

Derek dresses quickly and hurries down the spiral staircase.

Scott is there, looking as put-upon as usual when Derek needs something from him, backed by Allison with a crossbow, and looking just as annoyed. Lydia stands alert with a vial of mountain ash. Stiles is beside her with a wooden baseball bat clutched in his hands. He looks…worried.

“What’s going on? Where’s the incubus,” Scott asks.

“I killed it. I need help getting rid of the body.”

“Couldn’t you have done that yourself?”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“He has to burn it on ‘blessed’ land and keep the ashes in an urn with sunflower oil and fresh water,” Stiles tells his friend.

“Fine. Let’s go. I’ll help you.”

“No. Not you,” Derek snaps at the Alpha. “You,” he nods to Lydia.

She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him, more curiosity than surprise.

“Lydia,” Scott asks.

Derek merely holds out his hand to the redhead.

She takes it, and he leads her up the stairs with him.

“I can help,” Stiles shouts as they disappear into Derek’s bedroom.

“He calls me, in the middle of the night, asking for help with some sex demon or something, and then just dismisses me for Lydia,” Scott complains.

“Maybe her banshee powers will help or something,” Allison shrugs.

“Or maybe Derek’s a dick,” Scott responds.

“He’s not a dick,” Stiles snaps. “He asked for help, you dicked around getting here, and so he took care of everything. He just needs help getting rid of it.”

“All right. Jeez, dude. Sorry.”

Stiles just shakes his head at his friend.

Derek and Lydia appear, carefully carrying a bedsheet with the obvious dead body inside. They reach the last step and Stiles offers to help.

“No. We got it. Thank you. I’m going with Derek to burn it. My mom thinks I’m at your place, Allison. Can you meet my outside school a half-hour before the first bell, and bring a change of clothes for me please,” Lydia says.

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Allison responds.

Lydia nods her thanks.

“I can come with. Just in case you guys need—”

“We’re fine, Stiles. Drop it,” Lydia barks.

Stiles is taken aback, but knows better than to continue on with something when Lydia Martin says not to. He, Scott, and Allison watch as the werewolf and the banshee carry the hidden creature out of the apartment.

Derek slides the door closed.

He takes most of the weight as they head toward the elevators. The doors open and they maneuver inside. Lydia presses the button for the garage and the lift lurches downward.

“…Thanks.”

“You’re welcome… How’d you know it wasn’t really Stiles?”

“It didn’t call me ‘sourwolf’.”

“Oh.”

Derek listens to the quiet hum of the florescent lights above them, and the squeaky gears of the machine as it passes each floor. He’s trying ignore the inevitable—

“It’s apparent why you asked me instead of Scott or Allison, but Stiles isn’t going to let this go. He’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to mystery and secrecy, and he’s up there scratching his head right now about what just happened.”

“I know,” he sighs.

“I’ll never tell him, but you’re going to have to say something.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“…He was worried about you.”

“…He didn’t have to be.”

“But he was… And a little jealous… A lot of jealous, actually.”

Derek turns to her, brows raised up high. Her heartbeat. It’s steady. She’s not lying.

“You’re just as oblivious as he is. Whatever you tell him shouldn’t be a lie. He wants what you want.”

“…Should you be telling me this?”

She shrugs. “He didn’t confess anything to me, but it’s pretty obvious to everyone. But you. And Scott, who I think is actually just in denial.”

The doors open into the garage. Derek takes hold of the bedsheet completely. It’s nowhere near heavy. They just needed an excuse to carry it out together.

Lydia unlocks her car and pops the trunk. Derek dumps it inside then closes it. He climbs into the passenger seat. Lydia, already behind the wheel, turns the key in the ignition.

She rests her hand atop his. “There’s nothing wrong with hope, Derek.”

He knows all about hope. All about wanting and anticipating. It leads to chaos and sorrow.

“It’ll direct you to good places sometimes.”

“Like where?”

She shrugs. “Tell Stiles how you feel and find out.”

She makes it sound so simple. So easy. So true and certain.

…Maybe it is. Maybe that small, bright feeling in his chest that feels like light is the hope she planted there just now. Or maybe he had it earlier, when he realized a copy, an imposter, wasn’t enough, would never be enough, and so he snapped its head off, angry that it dared to think it could be all he’s yearned for.

Hope hurts, and it heals. Just as Lydia said. He knows that. So, he’ll keep just a tiny bit aside. And perhaps gain some courage one day, to exercise it rightfully, on a boy with walnut brown hair, matching amber eyes, decorated with moles like star constellations.

And it’ll be the day the demons stop taunting him.


	2. 5 Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles loves him too much to stay in denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to first chapter, told from Stiles' POV.

* * *

Derek needs a TV. And a computer. He needs something, because Stiles has been sitting here, fidgeting for the last couple minutes, trying to entertain himself to no avail. There’s only so long you can play Clash of Clans and Farmville on your phone.

His nosiness gets the better of him around 1AM, and he finds himself in Derek’s room, poking through his meager things. Just a few books, mostly non-fiction. There’s a few Mark Twain and F. Scott Fitzgerald novels, and the entire Sherlock series. Some CDs on the bookshelf, too (because Derek doesn’t know what an iPod is); mostly acoustic hipster/coffeeshop type stuff, like Bon Iver and Hozier. He’s surprised Derek’s taste is even that current. He’d have thought the werewolf would still be stuck on artists like Jewel and Lisa Loeb.

There’s a rack beside the dresser with 6 different leather jackets hanging on it. Stiles grabs one, ready to put it on, to turn his nose into the collar and take a deep whiff of Derek there, wishing silently he was able to smell like how a werewolf smells, but he thinks the better of it. He figures doing something as getting his scent latched onto a piece of Derek’s clothing would be a big faux pas in ‘werewolf world’. It seems too much like something ‘mates’ would do, like an expression of devoted love. A declaration. And even though Stiles wants, he’s not so sure Derek does, so chancing it with the jacket quickly loses its appeal.

He settles for opening the drawers on the dresser and not being disappointed. He smiles at just how neat and organized it all is, like he knew it would be: socks and underwear in the top drawer. Boxer briefs, all dark colors. Henley’s takes up full space in the second drawer. Nice-looking, sweaters in the third; grays and other dark colors. The fourth drawer is just plain, white T-shirts, a few A-line shirts, and two pairs of black pajama pants that still have the tags on them.

_He must sleep naked then…but why the pants though…_

He shakes off the thought before his mind can twirl into a tangent, and opens the last drawer. Jeans, two pairs of sweat pants, and a pair of pink swim trunks with flamingos on them, buried under four pairs of black denim that all look the same.

He can’t help it. He takes a picture of them with his phone, and then tucks them back into the drawer before closing it.

He notices a couple of manila envelopes on the dresser and goes through them. He immediately regrets it when he notices they’re insurance papers from the fire. He puts them back and heads back down the spiral staircase, ashamed of himself and his inability to mind his own business sometimes…a lot of the time.

It’s almost 2AM and Derek isn’t back yet.

He opens the fridge. Just a couple of protein shakes, a carton of eggs, and a jar of pickles. The trash is full with take-out boxes.

“Well, that won’t do,” he says to himself. He confirms his checking account balance on his phone— two hundred dollars.

He leaves the door ajar so he can get back in and drives to the 24-hour Fresh & Easy. He dumps a bunch of fresh fruit and vegetables in his cart, along with a loaf of wheat bread, low-sodium cans of soup, meats from the deli, gluten-free pasta, organic peanut butter, cheese, milk, rice, and brownie mix.

When he gets back to the loft it’s nearly 3:30AM and he’s $107.81 poorer than when he left. He puts away the food he bought and pulls out a square pan from a bottom cabinet, perfecting for brownies. Derek has nice dishes and a vast, expensive-looking cookware set. None of it looks used.

Stiles starts with the brownies, then gets to work on the pork chops as the brownies bake. Pancakes and bacon would be a more appropriate meal, but he doesn’t know when Derek will be back, and he doesn’t want it to be cold when he does. Pork chops take a while and aren’t so bad cold.

Stiles’ mind wanders while he cooks, thinking about Derek’s last meal with his family, wondering what they ate, what they talked about around the dinner table. Was there this ominous, dark feeling he had that loomed over him and made this tightness in his chest throughout the day?

That’s how he felt the day his mom died. He was at Scott’s house playing. Or trying to play, but his attention was elsewhere, thinking about his mother. The sheriff was at work. So was Melissa. A neighborhood girl in high school was babysitting them.

Scott kept trying to pull Stiles out of it, even insisting that he “be Batman this time,” but Stiles was feeling too bleak, too wounded for anything other than the sorrow he woke up with.

He couldn’t take it anymore and ran. He ran as fast as his little, thin legs could go. He ran all the way to the hospital, pushing his way through busy adults and past the nurse’s station, barging into his mother’s room, sweaty, exhausted, and scared.

He climbed into the bed with her, tucked under arm, head on her chest, listening to her shallow breaths, and knew this was the last time. He’d never see her again.

He wondered if when Derek kissed his mother before heading off to school that day and knew. If he felt swallowed whole throughout the day. He wonders if he felt it creeping up his back and digging into his heart in the middle of American History.

He hopes he didn’t. He wishes that on no one.

The door slides open. Derek. Looking exhausted, broken, and not the least bit surprised to see Stiles standing in his living room area. He’s dusted with black smudges and soil, and dirt patches on his exposed skin.

“School starts in an hour.”

“I know.” Stiles hopes his tone is enough to imply the “and I don’t care” he leaves unsaid.

“It’s seven in the morning, Stiles. I just burned the dead body of a… I’m hungry and I’m tired. I don’t want to do this now.”

“Good thing there’s a bed here and I cooked. I can wait.”

“Stiles—”

“Why’d you ask Lydia to help you and not anyone else?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I could’ve. You don’t need to keep trying to protect the squishy human all the time.”

He sighs at him, frustrated and annoyed. “Fine. You’re right. I apologize. Are we done with this?”

He doesn’t want to, but it taste rancid like battery acid in his mouth, and burns behind his eyes. Amber stones turn to wavy pools and he has to look away otherwise he’ll lose it completely. “…Why are you such an ass to me when all I want to do is…”

Derek’s looking at him. Really looking at him.

“There are these brief, short glimpses I get with you of something, and it just… It gives me the biggest hope that I just might not be crazy. That maybe you feel differently about me than you’d have me believe you do. So I try. But then the same thing keeps happening: you push back and you say something mean, or you dismiss me, or ignore me, or make me feel like I’m nothing but a bother to you, and it makes me want to do nothing but give up entirely. Then you know what happens when I start feeling like that? I get another small glimpse of something, and we start this whole thing all over again. This stupid fucking cycle! You’re tired, Derek?! I’m fucking tired, too!”

Stiles grabs his baseball bat and his backpack—

“Nothing good is ever going to come out of…out of us being something, Stiles. When I love someone they die, or they hurt me. I can’t do it again.”

“I would _never_ hurt you, Derek.”

“I know. Which means the only other thing that could happen is… I can’t bare that.”

“So you’d rather kill anything decent that might happen with us, on the off chance that I might die?”

“No. That I’m the reason you do.”

“And I guess telling you that not everything is your fault would make no difference in you changing your mind?”

“You deserve better, Stiles.”

“Is that what the incubus said to you?”

“You should go to school.”

He throws down his bat and bag! “You’re dismissing me again!”

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about this with you!”

“And I’m not going to ignore it! Any of it!” Three long strides and Stiles is face-to-face with Derek. “They lie, Derek. You know that. They find something in you, something you fear and they exploit it, trying to undermine you and use you. That’s their job. It’s just them trying to get in your head.”

“It’s not just about last night, Stiles. I am not good for you. And I probably never will be.”

“Because of Paige? Kate? Jennifer? Isaac? Boyd and Erica? Fucking Peter?”

“…Yes.”

“And knowing all that, not believe for one second that any of it is your fault, and still wanting to be with you, means nothing?”

He hesitates to answer, and Stiles feels like biting his nails through the silence.

“It’s not that it means nothing,” Derek says finally. “It’s that it means everything. I can’t pin the very last of my hope on you.”

“Why not?”

Stiles has seen Derek cry only twice: when Boyd died on his claws, and when Cora nearly died herself. This is the third time. His face is losing that tight, stone scowl, crumbling softly into brokenness, with a glossy, wet haze flooding in his green eyes. His resolve is tumbling, and Stiles refuses to stop, because they need this. They need to be raw and open. They’ve needed to be for so long and finally it’s come to that. Stiles can’t turn back now. Tears over an ugly past and painful truths be damned.

“Because I would never let you go. Ever.”

Stiles’ hands rise to cup the werewolf’s face. “Aren’t you listening? That’s all I want.”

“You’re seventeen. You don’t know what you’re saying.” He tries to pull away but Stiles won’t let go.

“Don’t do that. I meant what I said, and I know exactly what you’re saying.”

“Do you?! You always think you know everything and you don’t!”

“I don’t know everything, Derek, but I know you! I know you think just because you’re a werewolf and you’ve lost people that you love, that you have some kind of monopoly on hurt, and guilt! You don’t! The rest of us know pain and loss, too!”

“You’re twisting my words! I wasn’t implying you don’t! I was…”

Stiles waits. He’s come to understand over the years that he has to let Derek find his words instead of bombarding him in a verbal assault. Otherwise, they just wind up hurting each other with insults, getting them nowhere.

“I think you underestimate just how much I feel for you. And I think you’re not truly understanding how much I feel for you could impact a relationship with you, and what would become of me if something were to happen to you.”

“Fine. Then spell it out for me. It’s not like I plan on going to school today. I got time.”

“If you’re mine, then you’re mine. There are no obstacles, no exceptions, no one else, and fucking no outs. That’s it. That’s how it works with wolves, and you are not only asking for that, but you’re asking for that with a wolf that’s pretty fucking broken and wouldn’t see a point to living without you after having you. So you need to really think about what I’m saying, and what it all means, and if me and my shit is something you think is worth handling without end.”

Stiles remembers the first time he met Derek. He thinks about him collapsing in the parking lot at school, Derek protecting him from Peter, holding him up in a swimming pool for 2 hours, Kate torturing him, Scott using him to kill Gerard, and finding him unconscious in an elevator. He remembers Boyd’s last words, Derek punching through a wall to save his own sister, and him driving Isaac to Scott because he no longer felt honorable enough to protect an be followed.

He thought of all those moments and the ones in between.

He thinks of hand holding, soft kisses, and ‘I love yous’ that never end. He thinks of first dates and anniversaries. Slow dancing under moonlight and fights that last for hours, sometimes days, but always end in bed. Of moving trucks and lazy Sundays. Of mating ceremonies and weddings. Of a big, white house and children. He thinks of 50th birthdays and retirement parties. He thinks of grandchildren and a burial plot that reads: “Stilinski-Hale.”

He thinks of all that, for what feels like hours, but is only mere seconds, because he already knows his answer. He’s let his mind wander to all this before, and not once has any of it changed. Not once in his dreams has Derek never been there with him.

“I’m going to go upstairs, take off all my clothes, and get in your bed. And I will give you 5 minutes, and 5 minutes only, to come up there and get into bed with me. Because you can try and make this about me saying ‘yes’ all you want when really it’s about you saying ‘yes’, but I’m giving you 5 minutes to decide if that’s the answer you want to give me. If it’s not, then I’ll get dressed and I’ll leave and we can go on like it never happened, but that’s it, Derek. No more cycle. Five minutes. Starting now.”

Stiles is too focused to appreciate the stunted look on the beta wolf’s face as he climbs the spiral stairs.

He takes off his shoes and socks. Pants. Ironic graphic tee, and flannel, then climbs into the bed beneath the navy blue comforter. He changed the sheets earlier, while the pork chops were in the oven.

Stiles tries to be calm but his heart it’s nearly beating out of his chest. The sound of it must be deafening in Derek’s ears, and the smell of his anxiety is probably choking him. Scott told him once that anxiousness smells bitter, like citrus, akin to lemons and grapefruit.

Better than what I assumed it smelled like, he thought.

He glances at the clock on Derek’s nightstand. It’s only been a minute but feels like an eternity.

His hands sweat as the next minute ticks by in agony.

He’s never been one for prayer, but considers it for moment…until heavy footsteps slowly growing closer disrupt his pithy hazard into religion.

Derek.

As if his heart needed a reason to beat faster…

He stands by the bed, hovering over Stiles, staring at him like he’s a deer, ready to bound away at the slightest of sound.

“You don’t need permission to kiss me, Derek.”

Derek’s lips are on his in an instant, and it’s warm and needy and all the things they’ve been meaning to say:

_**I’m sorry. I want you. I need you. Don’t leave. Stay. I’m here. Protect me. Keep me. I care. I got you. Mine. Yours. Always. I love you.** _

Stiles pulls him down. Derek settles between Stiles’ thighs.

“I want…everything,” Derek says softly, looking into whiskey-colored eyes.

“You already have it. I gave it to you years ago.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I just know my heart hasn’t been mine in a long time.”

“Mine either.”

Stiles runs his fingers through Derek’s hair, because he’s always wanted to, and he gets to now. “Are we really this gone on each other? Are we really this crazy?”

“…Yes.” He looks so vulnerable, so scared and so hopeful that it finally hits Stiles: he has Derek. Derek Hale is his. He loves him back.

Stiles hands tug at the hem of Derek’s dirty shirt. Derek rises up and takes it off. They’re kissing, deprived and frantic. Stiles’ hands are everywhere. Derek’s hands pull at chestnut brown hair as he moans filthily in Stiles’ mouth.

Derek’s dirty pants end up on the floor along with his mud-covered boots.

Stiles’ lips trail down Derek’s chest, his stomach, and past the thin line of hair leading to his cock. Derek’s skin still smells of smoke, but taste strong and musky and male.

The werewolf lets out a shudder when Stiles’ wet mouth closes around his dick. Stiles works slow, tentative, lapping at every inch and sucking him down as far as he can go. He’s never done this before but he’s thought about it plenty of times; enough to get lost in how Derek feels between his lips and savoring the saline tang of precum on his tongue.

“Stiles. Stop. Please.” Derek pulls him off his cock.

“What? Did I do it wrong?”

“No. I was going to come, and I don’t want to like that. Come here.”

Stiles finds himself underneath the werewolf with his stomach in knots as Derek dabs his fingers with lubricant and spreads his cheeks apart.

“We can stop if you want.”

“Oh, my God, no. I just… I want this so much, but I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I got you. You don’t have to be nervous. Okay?”

Stiles shakes his head, but he doesn’t feel any less anxious. He’s about to lose his virginity and make himself officially Derek’s. He has no doubt it’s what he wants, but a little edginess of something so heavy has got to be understandable. _Right?_

Derek slides a finger in carefully, breaching his entrance, and all the blood rushes through Stiles’ body to his toes that curl at Derek’s hips. Another finger joins in, and Stiles is seeing stars.

Derek works him on his fingers, fucking him nice and easy. Stiles wants to touch himself but he knows if he does it’ll be over before it’s really begun.

A sticky line of precum webs between his erection and the nest of dark hair in his ‘happy trail’. Derek’s eyes turn gold and his teeth sharpen to fangs.

“Fuck that’s hot.”

Derek pulls out, leaving Stiles empty, but lines his cock up to Stiles’ wet, pink hole.

Stiles licks his lips and takes a deep breath. His hands clasp at Derek’s shoulders. He nods an “okay,” and Derek pushes in as slowly as he can. Stiles gasps loudly, digging his head deeper into the pillow and inadvertently barring his neck. Derek takes advantage and licks a long strip from his clavicle to just under his chin.

“It’s okay, baby. Breathe.”

The soft reassurance and pet name are enough to calm Stiles down a bit.

Inch by inch, Stiles takes Derek into him until he bottom-out. Derek stays still for a while, letting the human stretch and conform to his girth-y cock, all the while leaving gentle kisses on his face and neck.

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

Stiles nods. “I want you to move.”

Derek drags out slowly, leaving just the head inside him, then pushes in just as gradually. It takes all Stiles’ might not to come.

Derek keeps at it in that same careful pace.

They stare at one another, not loosing eye contact, refusing to look anywhere else but at each other. Derek’s breath ghost hotly over Stiles’ mouth before he captures it in a sweet kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I want you to come first.”

“Trust me. That won’t be a problem.”

Derek pushes in deep, jabbing at something, some internal button that has Stiles’ head turning to mush and a loud moan bellowing from his mouth. Derek pushes in deep again with a hand around Stiles’ leaking dick. He hits Stiles’ prostate a third time as his thumb sweeps over the wet head of Stiles’ erection— Stiles comes; shooting a large puddle of hot, white cum into Derek’s hand and screaming his name at the top of his lungs.

He opens his eyes enough to glance the older man licking his palm clean.

“Jesus… You’re going to ruin me in more ways than one, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to move a little faster. Not long because I’m already on edge, and I’m going to pull out and come on you and rub it into your skin. Is that okay?”

“Scent marking. Yeah.” Stiles read about it online. He didn’t believe it was true until Scott confirmed it, saying he had an indescribable need to soak Allison in his scent sometimes. Especially after their first time, and when they’ve been apart for a while.

Stiles thought it possessive and dominating and overprotective.

He jerked off that night with the thought of Derek doing it to him. Twice.

Derek takes hold of Stiles’ wrists. He rocks into him like he said he would, a little faster and a little harder. Stiles relaxes into the rhythm.

Derek’s grip tightens and Stiles’ skin turns red and flushed. His eyes don’t leave Derek’s face. It’s lax and blissful. Stiles smiles at the thought that it’s him, his body, that’s making Derek so happy and loose.

“Oh, shit…” Derek’s close and Stiles tightens his legs around him, crossing his ankles at the small of Derek’s back.

Derek’s rhythm quickens and his breaths turn to desperate moans. “ _StilesStilesStiles…_ ”

He pulls out and shifts into his beta form; ribbons of cum splash on Stiles’ chest and stomach with a roar. Stiles grabs his own cock, jerking it twice and coming again on his own belly. Derek mixes their cum and rubs it into Stiles’ skin. He kisses him wildly, then collapses beside him, sweaty and breathless.

“I want to do that, everyday, for forever,” Stiles says.

Derek smiles. A real, content, effortless smile Stiles has never seen before. “Okay.”

“Just like that?”

Derek takes his hand and entwines their fingers. He brings the back of Stiles’ hand up to his lips and kisses it, then holds it against his chest, against his beating heart. “Yeah. Just like that.”

Stiles curls toward him, his chin on Derek’s shoulder. “Good enough for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to all you saucy cherubs who asked for a sequel. Hope you liked it :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Find What You Love (And Let It Kill You)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11476698) by [Little_red_2000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_red_2000/pseuds/Little_red_2000)




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